


Just Reach Out

by sevenfists



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Originally Posted on LiveJournal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-04-30
Updated: 2006-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-24 10:02:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10739433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenfists/pseuds/sevenfists
Summary: Sam wakes up slowly. The dull hum of noise in the distance resolves into Dean's voice, quietly singing along with the radio. Sam's face is stuck to the leather seat. He's been drooling a little; the corner of his mouth is wet. He moves his hand tentatively, feeling it prickle, heavy with blood. The window's rolled down.





	Just Reach Out

Sam wakes up slowly. The dull hum of noise in the distance resolves into Dean's voice, quietly singing along with the radio. Sam's face is stuck to the leather seat. He's been drooling a little; the corner of his mouth is wet. He moves his hand tentatively, feeling it prickle, heavy with blood. The window's rolled down.

Sam sits up, squinting in the midday glare. "Where are we?"

Dean looks over, grins when he sees Sam's awake. "Just crossed over into Iowa. You've been asleep for about two hours. I thought I was gonna have to give you a kiss to wake you up."

"Um, what?" Sam says. He can't tell if Dean's making less sense than usual or if it's just that Sam isn't fully awake yet.

"You know, like Sleeping Beauty?"

"Wow, Dean. Fairy tales? Isn't that a little, I dunno, _girly_?"

"God, never mind," Dean mutters, scowling at the road.

Sam grins. He'd been dreaming that he was at the beach with Marvin Gaye and the girl he was in love with in second grade, Violet Meyers. It was a good dream. He feels sun-soaked and languid, almost happy.

He wriggles out of his flannel shirt. The sun's warm on his bare arms. It's June. Dean drums his fingers on the steering wheel in time with the song on the radio. Sam slouches down on the seat and looks out the window at the corn fields rolling by, the white farmhouses; the sky overhead, wide and blue as the ocean.

"Do we have anything to eat?" he asks.

"Might be a few Twinkies in my duffel," Dean says.

"Yeah, I meant _food_ ," Sam says.

"Actually," Dean says, completely deadpan, "Twinkies are widely recognized as the breakfast of champions."

Sam reaches over and punches Dean in the arm, not hard. Dean laughs, then, loud and pleased, taking one hand off the steering wheel to pinch Sam's cheek between two fingers, like he's somebody's grandma.

"Whatever, Sam," Dean says, "just cause you aren't man enough..."

"That's not what you were saying last night," Sam says, batting Dean's hand away, his face going a little hot despite himself.

Dean raises an eyebrow and smirks at the windshield, trying out his charm on the tempered glass. "Oh, so we're talking about it now?"

"No," Sam says, but it comes out sounding like a question. He doesn't want to talk about it, whatever It is; he just wants it to happen. He wants Dean to stop overthinking things.

"Uh-huh," Dean says. He looks over at Sam, his expression unreadable.

" _What_ ," Sam says.

"Nothing," Dean says. He grins and looks away again.

Sam crosses his arms, trying his best to be annoyed, but he can't pull it off. He's in a stupidly good mood. He catches himself humming along with the radio, tapping the flat of his hand on the armrest.

They pass through a little town, three blocks of picture-perfect small-town America, and then they're past it, back in farmland. A new song comes on the radio, something Sam recognizes but can't put his finger on, but he knows the rhythm of it, the driving pulse of guitars and bass. Dean makes a face and moves to switch over to a different station, but Sam says, "No, leave it on."

The singer wails about sex and decadence. Sam's warm and drowsy and a little turned on from the possessive heat in Dean's eyes, and it's easy to slouch down even further, feel the beat of the music turn into a sweet throb in his balls.

He spreads his thighs apart a little, giving his dick more room. Dean's chewing on a hangnail, not paying any attention. Sam rubs two fingers over his fly, not quite hard yet but getting there, relishing the slow curl of arousal in his gut.

He rolls his head on the back of the seat, turning so that he's looking out the window at the passing trees, the fields of corn growing up green and watered. He can still feel the heat of the sun from his dream, a ghost of sensation layered over the warmth of the real sun beating down on the black metal of the car. His body thrums with the tires skimming over the road and the radio urging him to _come on sugar let me know_.

It's good advice.

He looks speculatively at Dean, who's still driving along, ignoring Sam completely. Sam's going to change that. He rocks his hips slightly, just pushing forward into the air, imitating the motions of sex. He thinks about fucking - about fucking Dean, positioning him on the bed and thrusting into him from behind, watching the muscles in his back ripple with every stroke. Sam can't help the grunt that escapes him at the thought. He presses the heel of his hand into his crotch, pushing his cock up into his palm, rubbing the length of it through the denim.

"What the fuck are you doing," Dean says, and Sam looks over at him. Dean's watching him, lips parted, and _that_ , that's what Sam wants, that expression on Dean's face like he never wants to look away.

"Can't you tell?" Sam asks, leaving his hand right where it is. He can hardly believe he's doing this, but the look on Dean's face is _so_ worth it.

"Dude, not while I'm driving," Dean says.

"Don't you want to watch?" Sam almost claps a hand over his mouth, not sure where the words are coming from and a little embarrassed that he's _saying_ stuff like that.

"Jesus Christ," Dean says, his grip on the steering wheel going white-knuckled.

Sam turns his head back toward the window, grinning. He pops open the button on his jeans.

"Don't make me pull over," Dean says, and he sounds so much like Dad that Sam barks out a short laugh.

"Keep driving," Sam says, still looking away, and is surprised by the sound of his own voice, low and dark. He can feel Dean's eyes on him, flickering over him and then darting back to the road. Every ounce of blood in Sam's body is busy pumping through his dick. He's achingly hard.

Sam's jeans are loose, almost hanging off his ass, and he shoves his right hand down into his boxers, curling his fingers around his cock. He moans extravagantly, putting on a show for Dean, and barely holds back a snort of laughter when the car swerves toward the median.

"Pay attention to the road," he says, squeezing his cock.

"You're making it a little hard, Sam," Dean grates out, and yeah, there's no way Dean isn't enjoying this.

Sam strokes lightly, teasing himself, rolling his thumb over the head of his cock and twisting his fingers to rub at the circumcision scar. It's _so_ good, and this time when he moans it's because he can't help himself. He tightens his grip and starts to stroke in earnest, dipping his fingers in the moisture at the tip of his cock and spreading it all around.

He looks over at Dean to make sure he's still paying attention. Dean's breathing through his mouth, and there's a telltale bulge in his jeans. Sam bites his lip to keep from smirking. He trails his other hand down his body, twisting his nipples hard through his t-shirt, pressing at his belly, and then slipping under the waistband of his pants to stroke at his balls. He rolls them in his hand, tugs at them lightly; and God, he wants more - he wants -

He pulls his left hand out of his pants and sticks two of his fingers in his mouth, sucking on them until they're coated with saliva. He squeezes his cock with his other hand. Dean turns the radio off, and the only sounds in the car are the wet noises of Sam's mouth and the harsh rhythm of Dean's breathing.

They make eye contact, Sam's fingers still in his mouth. Dean stares at him, face open and hungry, and then jerks his head away, looking back at the road.

"Are you, uh," Dean says, his voice a husk.

Sam pulls his fingers out. "Yeah," he says, "yeah, I am." He props his right foot on the dashboard, spreading his legs wide, and then sticks his hand down his pants, curving down between his legs and around his ass until he's tracing wet fingers around his hole. It's an awkward angle but he doesn't care, he _needs_ it.

"Do it," Dean says, "Sam, tell me what you're doing, I want to hear it - "

"Oh God," Sam gasps, sliding his fingers inside. They go in easy, all the way to the knuckles. "I'm - I've got my - " He flushes, reluctant to say it.

"Tell me," Dean orders.

"Dean, no," Sam whines. He curves his fingers, stroking up inside, and starts tugging at his cock again with his other hand. He lets his eyelids fall shut. It's too much, too good. All he can think about is Dean's eyes on him, and the feeling of his own hand on his cock and his fingers pulling slowly out of his body before sinking back in.

"Yeah," he says, hips moving aimlessly. He feels his orgasm building down low in his belly, and he quickens his strokes, his hand tight on his cock, the exact right pressure, and he flexes around his fingers.

"Sam," Dean says, and Sam's eyes fly open, his head turning helplessly toward the sound of Dean's voice. Dean's steering one-handed, his other hand cupping his hard cock. His eyes are too bright, and when he sees Sam looking at him, he licks his lips.

"Come for me," Dean says, and Sam's orgasm hits him like a freight train. Every muscle in his body clenches up as he comes. He strokes himself through it, shaking and panting harshly, the sound of his breathing loud in the confined space of the car.

He collapses back against the seat, still stroking his fingers lazily inside himself, feeling the aftershocks ripple through him like slow fireworks. He looks over at Dean, who's glancing back and forth between Sam and the road, a pained expression on his face.

Sam grins and pulls his hands out of his pants, takes his foot off the dashboard. His right hand's covered in come. He licks it off, really playing it up, sucking on his fingers and biting at the heel of his hand.

"Jesus Christ," Dean grunts, and reaches out to grab at Sam's hand, bringing it to his own mouth, and it's the hottest thing Sam's ever seen. He twists on the seat, giving Dean better access. His dick twitches weakly as Dean licks him clean.

Dean, finished, lets Sam's hand drop away. "Maybe we can stop early for the day," he says.

"I dunno, Dean, it's important to meet our mileage quota," Sam says, and laughs loudly at the annoyed look Dean gives him. He feels sticky and sweaty, and his jeans don't bear thinking about, but he doesn't care. He flops around on the seat, getting comfortable. Dean turns the radio back on. The sun passes behind some clouds and then comes out again. Sam closes his eyes.  



End file.
